A Christmas Gift

by Ruby Jackson

  ‘Then that’s what we’ll do, Seb. Right, Sally, are you up for singing “Old Lang Syne” as Big Ben brings in 1942?’

  ‘Best idea yet, Millie.’

  Sebastian, who had been slightly embarrassed as he allowed his memory to spill out, took the girls by the hand. ‘Come along then, my little musketeers, all for one and one for all – and I happen to know where a nice bottle of bubbly is keeping cool.’

  They reached St Paul’s less than fifteen minutes before midnight. On this third New Year’s Eve of the war, there was room and more for them, as Londoners chose to celebrate in the shelters or remained at home. Air-raid wardens could be seen scanning the skies just as they had done every night of the war and would continue to do until the final all clear was sounded.

  At last the great clock began to toll away the old year and count in the new. ‘Bring world peace in with you,’ shouted an elderly man from the steps.

  ‘Here, here,’ shouted many voices, and then it seemed that everyone in the crowd grabbed the hand of someone near them, known or unknown, joining together in a wish for world peace as they sang ‘Old Lang Syne’.

  FOURTEEN

  January 1942

  ‘Sally, Sally, is that you? It’s Maude here – in Dartford.’

  Sally’s heart definitely skipped a beat. ‘Maude, hello, yes, it’s Sally.’ She stopped talking and held her breath, thinking that somehow that would control the excitement that was setting ever nerve end on fire.

  The pent-up breath exploded as she heard Maude crying out to her, ‘He’s alive, Sally, Jon’s alive.’

  Max, who had called Sally to take the call in his office, helped her now into his own chair. She was, he suspected, very close to falling down. ‘Be calm, Sally, take your time. I’ll be just outside but I’ll send in Seb or Millie, if you like.’

  She squeezed his hand. ‘No, thank you, Max; I’m fine, really.’

  He left the room and she picked up the black receiver from where she’d left it lying on his desk. ‘Jon’s alive, Maude. You’re sure this time?’

  Crying and laughing, Maude explained. ‘One of his friends in the Admiralty rang me up, Sally. As far as I could understand it, the French Resistance rescued him and a fellow officer. They were picked up by a fisherman who looked after them in his home, although there seems to be some doubt about where the home was – one of the islands off the coast of France or France itself.’

  ‘Maudie, is … is he all right?’

  Maude’s voice was full of joy. ‘Jon wasn’t injured but the other chap was. A doctor in the nearest village looked after him and, although everyone there knew about them, their presence was kept a secret from the Nazis. Seemingly, they’ve been in France all this time, unable to get word through to the authorities, and the Resistance fighters have been trying to get them home. It’s so exciting, but rather frightening too. It seems the Resistance has contacts with a group here who drop our people into France and sometimes the plane lands and picks up people to take home, too.’

  Sally thought of her friend Daisy, now a pilot in the Air Transport Auxiliary. Daisy was in love with a Czech pilot who was flying with the RAF and he, Tomas, flew missions into occupied countries. So much bravery everywhere.

  ‘I know, Maude, they’re splendid people, but Jon is all right? You’re quite sure? Where is he now? When can we see him?’ The questions came thick and fast.

  ‘I don’t know too much at the moment. The chap wanted Jon’s family – and really that’s just the two of us – to know he’d been rescued. They suffered terribly from exposure; I don’t know how long they were in the water before the fishing boat found them. He is in a military hospital but again according to the chap who rang, it’s mainly to be checked over. When he leaves the hospital he’ll be debriefed and that can take a few days.’

  ‘Where is he? May I see him? I’m sure I would be given leave to go with you. Oh, Maude, I don’t know why I’m crying.’

  ‘Hear me weeping too, Sally. It’s relief, dear. And the answer to your questions is, I just don’t know. This old chum, a Commander Livingston, will keep me informed and, of course, I’ll ring you immediately, but for now I think we should thank God and do the jobs we’ve been given until Jon himself contacts us. He loves you, Sally; I’m quite sure of that, and so he’ll ring or write when he’s able.’

  He loves you, Sally. The words stayed with her, ringing in her head long after Maude had disconnected. Love had never been mentioned between them. Ridiculous to think of it. How often had they met? Had they even spent as much as an hour together? How many letters? She had written many, sending them out like little doves of peace to be tossed by the winds, hoping that somehow they would reach him. How many had she received from him? One single letter. Had he written letters that had been lost?

  He loves you.

  Maudie knew him, but could he love someone he’d scarcely met?

  Yet the image of him was fresh in her mind, as if she had been constantly reminded of him. She wondered what had stoked that memory. Sebastian’s kindness? Sam Castleton’s gentleness? She realised that even a uniformed sailor, glimpsed quickly in an audience, had reminded her of Jon, had kept her memories, her growing feelings, alive.

  She hoped that something, perhaps nothing more than a song, had reminded Jon of her.

  *

  In February, when it seemed that the country was at its coldest, Max’s company set off for what he termed ‘the wilds of Scotland’. Sebastian and Millie, who had some experience of Scottish cities, hoped he was joking.

  ‘Edinburgh’s lovely, Sally; small, when you compare it with London. At the top of the Royal Mile is Edinburgh Castle, my favourite castle – unless I remember Heidelberg, which was Patrick’s – and a few steps from the castle there’s a super old concert hall, quite round, if I remember correctly, where my lovely Patrick partnered me for the first time. Giselle was the ballet, quite beautiful. We will all have to go and see the sights and walk and walk and walk.’

  ‘But we won’t even see Edinburgh,’ sighed Sally, seated in the lorry next to her.

  ‘No, we’re going to be on the other side of the country,’ Sebastian pointed out.

  Since it was virtually impossible to see any of the Scottish countryside, the three friends – and most of the company – settled down with their own thoughts and memories. They were all in uniform with their heavy coats on top and a few lucky ones, including Sally, who had fur coats wore them on top of everything else. The hardier souls were content to stop there but many cast members also wrapped themselves in their blankets.

  As always Sally’s thoughts turned to Jon, who had been released from hospital and was according to Maude, somewhere in Portsmouth. Jon himself had contacted neither of them.

  ‘It’s the debriefing thing, Sally, don’t take it to heart. The Navy needs to learn everything that Jon experienced, everything he can remember. It seems the fishermen who rescued them can’t be traced. Jon’s colleague is still receiving medical attention at St Thomas’s, where they seem to be doing fabulous work. Let’s not forget the first doctor; it’s thanks to him that he’s alive and will make a full recovery.’

  ‘But why can’t the fishermen be traced?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sally. I’m telling you everything I know. All I care about is that Jon is alive. He’ll tell us everything when he comes home.’

  What beautiful words, ‘comes home’.

  Sally had told Sebastian and Millie the good news. The three of them were in the kitchen, drinking cocoa, the night before a trip north. Millie and Sebastian were full of rational explanations for the fishermen’s disappearance.

  ‘They could be in le Maquis, the resistance movement, Sally, and simply not want to be found, or they might have been smuggling, not fishing, when they rescued Jon and his colleague.’

  ‘Smuggling what?’

  ‘Sally Brewer, there’s a war on; ammunition, food, wine, animals, anything … You say Maude told you Jon was found in the south of
France, but didn’t you hear earlier about some Corsican fishermen?’

  ‘Yes, there were rumours about fishermen from – possibly the south of France, Malta or Corsica.’

  ‘I’d forgotten about Corsica,’ confessed Millie. ‘Wasn’t Napoleon born there?’

  ‘Yes, but completely irrelevant at the mo, Millie. There’s maquis – with a small m – on Corsica. I believe it’s the Corsican-French word for the scrubland that covers the island. Maybe there’s also a Maquis with a capital M on Corsica and our friendly fisherman works with them. Can’t remember reading much about the island recently but it is French and therefore quite likely the inhabitants dislike Herr Hitler as much as France itself does.’

  Millie had doubts. ‘But why must they be found? Perhaps they simply don’t want to be found.’

  ‘Apart from to thank them, they are the only people who really know what happened out there in the Mediterranean,’ explained Sebastian. ‘They didn’t spend hours – dear God, maybe even days – floating in cold water as Jon did, and that exposure must have taken a lot out of him. You’ve been told that he wasn’t injured as in shot, blown up, but he’s lived through one hell of a traumatic experience. Isn’t that one of the things the medics found after the Great War – interior scars, for want of a better word?’

  Sally burst into tears. ‘What are you saying?’ she sobbed. ‘That Jon’s not all right?’

  Sebastian held her in his arms, patting her back as he did so. ‘No, I’m not saying that. I’m sorry, Sal. All I’m saying is that Jon survived a terrible experience and he has to be given time to come back to full strength. The navy will give Maude an address as soon as the debriefing is over. It may already have happened.’

  Millie stood up and took Sally’s hand. ‘Your turn to wash up, Seb. Come on, Sally, bedtime if we want to be bright-eyed in Bonnie Scotland tomorrow. Jon will tell them everything he can remember and when they’re quite sure he can’t remember anything else, they’ll tell him to ring Maudie.’

  ‘Sebastian washed the tea dishes, Millie,’ Sally said later as she reached over to switch off the lamp that stood between the beds.

  ‘I know; won’t do him any harm to do another lot. Night-night, Sally.’

  In early afternoon they pulled into a bleak airbase for refuelling, both of men and machines, and never, decided Sally, had potato soup been more welcome or more delicious. The sun was shining brightly outside the canteen window and that gave them a false sense of warmth for when they stepped outside the canteen the wind, ‘straight from the Arctic’, according to Millie, threatened to blow away everything. There was a shout as one of the dancers lost the blanket that she had refused to leave behind in the lorry and several of the men, including Sebastian, went haring after it, helped and hindered by the wind. Eventually the blanket snagged itself on the blocks holding a Spitfire in place and was recaptured with much merriment.

  ‘Anything else you’d like to drop, darlin’? We’ll be more than happy to chase it for you.’

  They were not scheduled to put on a show on that particular base and so, blanket recovered, they walked out to the waiting lorries.

  ‘That was a nice little break,’ Max assured them. ‘Great hospitality and the chaps got a good bit of welcome exercise too. I’ve thanked the station commander and promised that we’ll try – don’t groan – that we’ll try to put on a show for them, as a small thank you, later in the year. They say Scotland’s lovely in the autumn. Now all aboard and if you can sleep, do so. Next stop, two shows back to back.’

  Three hours later they stopped at a naval base on the River Clyde. The wind was not quite so fierce now and nothing was blown away as they followed their hosts to the quarters allotted to them, two large Nissen huts each with the most wonderful black stove that belched heat.

  ‘Pick me up here when the war’s over,’ joked Humph. ‘I’m not leaving this hut until then.’

  ‘There’s Scotch in the Officers’ Mess,’ said the naval rating who had directed them.

  ‘Amendment, amendment, pick me up at the Officers’ Mess when the war’s over.’

  Everyone laughed and, of course, Humph used his new joke in his performances.

  Sally, her mind full of worries that Maude might be trying to telephone her that very moment, tried to think of nothing but entertaining the troops. She dressed carefully, allowed Sybil to apply make-up to her already expressive eyes, walked onto the basic stage the airmen had happily built for them, and smiled. The men had started to clap and whistle as soon as she appeared but when she smiled many started drumming their feet and cheering.

  She held up her hands and immediately they were quiet. ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ she said, immediately wishing she had called them ‘boys’, ‘I’ve worked so hard to learn a new song’ – and then, delivered with a demure pout – ‘just for you.’ She accompanied this last remark with a pointing finger, ‘And you and you and, all of you,’ she said, ‘but I can’t sing if you make too much noise.’

  She turned to Sam who was leading the small band that he had put together, and which was playing for her. He smiled, raised his baton and – music, and no more demure Sally Brewer.

  ‘Mad About the Boy,’ sang a very confident Sally as she walked down into the audience, making eye contact with various men seated there. By the time she reached the end the room was in uproar.

  ‘That wasn’t too bad,’ Max greeted her as she eventually – with one last thrown kiss – walked off-stage.

  ‘Actually, I thought it was very good,’ said Sally, and she smiled happily at the director before hurrying off to change for her next appearance.

  ‘I didn’t realise Seb was such a fine pianist,’ Max said as he and Sybil stood watching the show and noting audience reaction. ‘He’s really got Sally performing.’

  ‘He isn’t; that’s not where his genius lies. You were watching Lal just now, every sultry, smouldering glance, every movement of those hips. The girl can act, Max. Maybe time to think of a vehicle.’

  ‘Possibly. We could try her out in France but not a word till I find the right material.’

  Unaware that her fate was being decided, Sally continued with both her new and old routines until the last curtain call of the second show. Then they congregated in the Officers’ Mess, where Sally became the honey pot around which the wasps gathered. They had had a lecture from Max on how to handle military adulation. ‘Be friendly, but not involved. Bear in mind that most of these men are new to a military life; many will never have been away from home before, unless to a Boy Scout camp and almost all will have at least one wife or girlfriend waiting, we hope faithfully, at home. Girls, be very careful never to be alone with anyone. Move around the base in groups. Understood?’

  ‘They’re boys, Max.’

  ‘They’re not. They’re soldiers or sailors or airmen, most of them have grown up very, very quickly. And if it makes you feel better, be assured that “No fraternising with the ENSA company” is exactly what their commanding officers have said to them. Smile, say hello, but keep your distance.’

  Sally, who was finding it very difficult to keep her distance from men of all shapes, sizes, ranks and ages, was delighted to be rescued by Millie and Sebastian, and as a threesome, they were able to stay chatting until finally Sally confessed that she was exhausted. She wondered if Millie had found it difficult to once again be in a group where she was singled out for admiration. This type of event must have been part and parcel of her life as a professional ballerina and a number of the men, and not all of them officers, were delighted to meet her and to talk about classical ballet.

  ‘Did you enjoy the evening, Millie?’ Sally asked as they were preparing to get into the very tightly covered iron beds.

  For a few minutes there was silence and Sally worried that she should have kept quiet and then Millie smiled. ‘Pain and pleasure, Sally. I hadn’t realised how much we rely on the admiration of the audiences. We – and I’m putting actors and singers and dancers together now –
work so hard to make a routine, a number, a step, perfect. We think, hope, pray even, that we’ve mastered it but it’s not until someone waits for us in the cold outside a theatre and says, “That was super, Mrs Burgess,” that we know we’ve done it. I didn’t realise how much I missed that.’

  ‘Will you return to the stage when the war is over?’

  ‘The time it’s taking, I’ll only be fit for the wicked witch in Hansel and Gretel.’

  ‘Nonsense, you’re exquisite on stage,’ said Sally boldly.

  ‘Thank you, Sally, and since we’re throwing fulsome congratulations around, didn’t you raise your game tonight?’

  ‘I’ve never been so pleased that my parents were safely tucked up in bed in Dartford.’

  Laughing, they fell asleep.

  Impossible to sleep late on a military base.

  ‘Some idiot was outside our window playing the damned bagpipes before dawn even cracked,’ Millie complained to Sebastian as she blinked sleepy eyes in the canteen.

  ‘We are in Scotland, Millie. It was reveille, Scottish style.’

  ‘Dear God, Seb, it sounded like cats being tortured, and as for the brawny Scotsman bellowing out commands …’ She stopped, lost for strong enough words.

  ‘Have a nice strong, hot cup of tea, and we can follow that up with Scottish porridge, but for heaven’s sake, don’t put sugar on it. We don’t want to be frog-marched out.’

  ‘Very funny, I’m sure,’ said Millie, taking a sip of tea. ‘Oh, delight! Strong enough to dance on, as Patrick used to say, just the way I like it.’

  ‘Good, well, get a move on. I think they’re warming up – I use the term loosely – the engines, and we will be departing before your porridge bowl meets the soap suds in the sink.’

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’ Sally, dressed for the long journey home, had arrived. ‘And if you’re worried that I’ll keep you late, Sebastian, all I want is a nice cup of tea.’